


Dessert

by battle_cat



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: After they escape Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale has one thing on his mind. Well, one thing on his mind other than lunch.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 449





	Dessert

In the length of the short walk from the park to the Ritz, Aziraphale becomes acutely aware of just how desperately he wants Crowley.

He’s still awash with adrenaline from their visits to Heaven and Hell, dizzy with relief that their insane plan had actually _worked,_ and the world feels extraordinarily bright and sharp around him. The colors of everything are saturated to bursting, and his gaze keeps being drawn to Crowley’s burnished-copper hair, the hint of scarlet fabric framing the graceful line of his throat, the serpentine sway of his hips in tight jeans.

(He can still feel the echo of being in a body that moved that way, and he certainly wasn’t thinking about it _like that_ while he was busy trying to save both their lives, but oh, good Lord, he can’t seem to _stop_ thinking about it now.)

Crowley is striding beside him, looser and more relaxed than Aziraphale remembers seeing him in ages, and he keeps replaying the way Crowley had tilted his head back and cackled with abandon at the image of Michael miracling up a towel. He hadn’t heard Crowley laugh like that in _years;_ how he wants to make him do it again. 

He wants other things, too. How many times had he wanted to put his mouth on the spot below the sharp hinge of Crowley’s jaw and suck a bruise there; how many times had he wanted to put his hands on those absurd hips and pull their bodies together—

He knows he isn’t supposed to want like this. Because Crowley is a demon—that bit is obvious. Because angels aren’t supposed to feel something so base as lust. _Can’t_ feel it—he’s sure that is the official line from Above, although he’s recently come to appreciate how often _can’t_ in Heaven really means _ought not to._ And…there’s another layer to it, too, something harder to articulate, something about bodies and how Heaven expects you to inhabit one on Earth but not to _feel_ with it the way humans do, not to _savor_ it—

They’re at the Ritz. They’re at the Ritz, Crowley at his side as they pass through the oak-and-gold doors into the ornate lobby. The current floral theme is roses. Of bloody course it is. Just bushels and bushels of roses, exploding from antique vases the size of a man’s torso, and he catches Crowley rolling his eyes behind his glasses but there’s also the tiniest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Aziraphale suddenly can’t stand it any longer.

He backs Crowley up against the wall behind the nearest floral extravaganza and kisses him.

Crowley makes a noise—half surprise and half something desperate, raw. He grabs fistfuls of Aziraphale’s lapels and pulls them flush together, and Aziraphale braces one hand on the silk wallpaper by Crowley’s shoulder and sinks the other into his hair. _Oh,_ it’s just as soft as he imagined, and Crowley makes a different noise, one that’s unmistakably pleasure; his mouth opens for Aziraphale’s tongue and his body arches against him, so openly, wantonly eager, and it’s so, _so_ good.

Aziraphale had thought, when he’d allowed himself to think about it at all, that finally crossing that line would be terrifying. They’d spent so long hiding, denying, looking over their shoulders, edging toward something they could both feel but could never name, both of them slipping up now and then, dragging the other back from the precipice when they’d gotten too drunk or too maudlin for their own good. But finally tipping over isn’t scary, not at all. It feels _easy,_ and _right,_ and _safe._ It feels like coming home.

Heaven would hate that part most of all.

He has no idea how long he’s been kissing Crowley—years, maybe—but when he finally pulls back they’re both gasping. Crowley’s lips are kiss-reddened (and terribly fetching that way) and his hair is a mess.

“Oh, darling…” He lets the endearment slip out after centuries of biting it back. “I’ve wanted…for so long…”

Crowley makes a needy kind of whimper and sways forward, and they’re at it again, hot, open presses of mouths and breath and fingers digging in wherever they’ve landed.

Crowley is the one who pulls back this time, although it seems to take quite an effort on his part. “We could…” he pants, “…skip lunch. Go…somewhere….”

“Oh no.” He catches Crowley’s lower lip briefly between his own. “No, we’re definitely having lunch.” He dips in for another kiss, this one with the barest scrape of teeth, and feels Crowley’s breath hitch. “You know how hard it is to get a table on a Sunday.” 

Crowley groans, his head tilting back against the wall, which just gives Aziraphale access to the tender curve of his throat. “I’d very much—” He presses his lips softly to Crowley’s pulse point. “—like more of this later, though.”

“Yeah,” Crowley gasps. “Yeah.” Dear Lord, he looks _wrecked,_ and all they’ve done is kiss. It fills Aziraphale with a rush of something thrilling. Crowley swallows, trying to pull himself together. He runs a distracted hand through his hair, which only half restores itself to its normal immaculately-styled condition. Aziraphale rather likes it that way, though.

He becomes aware again that they are not the only beings in the universe. He turns around, not sure if he’s ready to fight or apologize to anyone who might object…but no one has noticed them. The world goes on, unaware that it almost ended this weekend and just as unaware of the angel and the demon snogging their faces off behind a bunch of roses. Well then. He’s not sure whose miracle that was, but he can work with it.

Aziraphale orders for both of them, and eats for both of them, although he convinces Crowley to try a bite of tarte tatin off his fork. (Crowley works very hard to make it look lascivious, but coughs a little and blushes furiously when Aziraphale strokes a finger under his chin.)

The food is delectable, the champagne exquisite, and Aziraphale thinks about kissing Crowley the whole time.

They barely make it in the bookshop door before they’re on top of each other, Crowley’s long fingers cupping his face while he fumbles for the lock. Crowley’s mouth still tastes of apples and caramel and short crust, the flavors lingering despite copious amounts of champagne. He only breaks away once, to toss his sunglasses…somewhere, who knows where, into a pocket dimension consisting entirely of sunglasses for all Aziraphale knows.

They’re against the door, and he’s letting himself touch, letting his hands stroke down Crowley’s sides and up over the sharp planes of his shoulderblades. Even with both of them fully clothed the closeness of his body is intoxicating, the heat and the feeling of lithe muscle under his hands. Crowley shudders and presses into every touch like he’s starving for it, and when Aziraphale’s teeth scrape at the join between his neck and shoulder he outright whimpers.

 _I want you,_ Aziraphale thinks. _I want the humble, Earthly physicality of you. The taste of your sweat, the feel of your skin, the way you move, the sounds you make when I’m giving you pleasure. I want to learn the map of how to touch you. I want to let you learn how to touch me._ They are vast celestial beings, but what he craves right now are the parts of him that are closest to human.

And yes, this is it, the crux of the thing angels are not supposed to want. You have a body, but that isn’t _you._ It’s just what you get around in, a vessel to contain your ethereal essence and keep it from spilling out inconveniently around mortals. It’s there to do a job, not to simply be _enjoyed._

But, well, Aziraphale has quite a weakness for enjoying things. Taking pleasure in the senses, in sensations, the firing of nerve endings, the release of neurotransmitters, the sordid chemical reactions that signal comfort and satiety; arousal, curiosity, belonging, love. Like a _human._ It’s obscene, for an angel to want such things.

He always had been a terrible angel, hadn’t he?

He can’t remember deciding to make an effort for the afternoon, but he certainly has, and Crowley has as well, and in their…five minutes? five hours?…of making out against the door they’ve both grown noticeably hard. He shifts a little and gives an experimental slide of his thigh between Crowley’s, and Crowley keens into his mouth.

“Angel… _fuck,_ ” he gasps, breaking the kiss to bury his hot face against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’d very much like to. Shall we go upstairs?”

Crowley makes a strangled sound against his jacket collar, and that’s very satisfying, but it’s not actually an answer. He tilts Crowley’s chin gently up from where it’s digging into his shoulder, and _oh,_ his expression is just raw, desperate need. Aziraphale doesn’t fault him for the glasses; he can’t hide anything without them—

“Yesss—nngh, fucking— _yes,_ angel—” Crowley hisses, and they’re glued together at the lips again, Aziraphale pulling him closer, closer.

It takes them several minutes of sloppy kissing and knocking things off shelves to actually make it to the narrow staircase at the back of the shop, and several more minutes to stumble up it, into Aziraphale’s infrequently-used flat and even-less-frequently-used bedroom.

“You _do_ have a bed,” Crowley exclaims between kisses. It’s a four-poster from the turn of the 19th century, but, having seen very little use, the mattress is well preserved.

“It’s for reading.” He backs Crowley up against that chest of drawers he acquired in 1653, knick-knacks rattling as he shoves Crowley’s jacket off his shoulders. They’re both struggling to undress each other, mouths competing to find newly exposed flesh, neither of them getting very far with various buttons and buckles. “Oh, this is ridiculous,” Aziraphale finally mutters, and snaps them both naked.

“Angel!” Crowley gasps with pretend shock, making not a single move to adjust his inviting contrapposto lean against the dresser. They’re close enough to kiss but he can feel the pull of both their gazes wanting to wander, wanting to look.

They’ve seen each other nude before, in eras when humanity was less uptight about such things and public baths made a convenient rendezvous point. But the context is far different here.

Crowley is…well, Crowley is a beauty no matter what form he takes, and Aziraphale isn’t so much used to it as he is used to being blinded anew by it, every time Crowley changes his hair or his style of dress or his position on the gender spectrum. What’s new is being allowed to look, being _invited_ to look, and what’s even more unexpected is the way Crowley is looking back at him with such unabashed hunger. Aziraphale knows his corporation is not considered particularly desirable by current fashions, which so value youth and thinness, and that mostly doesn’t bother him one bit, but Crowley is looking at him like he wants to swallow him whole, and it’s doing things to him in unexpected places. As well as some very predictable ones.

He trails his fingers down a pale flank, over the marble-smooth ridge of a hipbone, thumb skating just past the edge of the patch of russet hair where Crowley’s cock is flushed and hard. Crowley twitches, head tipping back and eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Too fast for you?” he quips, but there's an honest question underneath.

Crowley grins. “Now you’re just being a bastard.” He surges in, and Aziraphale meets him halfway, both of them gleefully devouring with hands and mouths whatever they can reach.

They end up on the bed, in a tangle of limbs and skin and sweat. Nothing particularly…organized…is going on, but it’s still _so much,_ every clumsy moment of heat and friction overwhelming a moan out of one or both of them. They’re not doing much more than rutting against each other but suddenly they land in a devastating rhythm, Crowley’s hips working against the soft curve of Aziraphale’s belly and Aziraphale grinding down on a taut thigh between his own and it’s _so good;_ he plants a hand on Crowley’s bum and another one in his hair to keep him in place and Crowley gives an urgent whine and bites down on the meat of his shoulder and _fuck,_ that’s pretty much all it takes for both of them to come hot and sudden between their bodies.

They lie still for a moment, Crowley mostly draped over Aziraphale and both of them breathing great heaving breaths they don’t strictly need to take, but that feel appropriate for the moment.

“Oh…” Aziraphale sighs. “That was…”

“Hnnh,” Crowley agrees.

“I’d imagine with a little practice we could both last more than five minutes.”

Crowley snorts. “That was five whole minutes, was it?”

“You know, I wasn’t counting.”

“Mnnh.” Crowley shifts a little to tuck his face against Aziraphale’s neck.

The room is languid with late afternoon heat he hadn’t bothered to notice before now, and neither of them seems to want to move. After a moment he miracles away the slick mess of come between them, but leaves the sweat in place. His fingers find Crowley’s hair and stroke through it softly, over and over again, and Crowley relaxes against him, all warm bare skin and comforting weight.

How long had he wanted this? His heart feels like it will crack open if he thinks about it too long.

“I’m terribly in love with you, you know,” he says, very softly, after some time. “I have been for ages.”

He feels Crowley’s breath hitch against his chest, feels the brief spasm of his fingers where they rest on his shoulder. “I—” Crowley breaks off, swallows hard.

“It’s okay.”

“No.” Crowley curls a little closer around him. His face is pressed against Aziraphale’s skin, but he can still hear him when he says: “I love you too.”

“I know. I’ve been able to feel it for…quite some time now.”

Crowley shivers. Aziraphale wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“I tried so hard to convince myself that it was something else. That a demon couldn’t… But…I could feel you.” He shifts a little, turning onto his side so that he can get both arms around Crowley. “I’m so sorry.” He suddenly, urgently needs to say it. “That I couldn’t say it sooner—that I pushed you away—”

“Don’t.” Crowley looks up. His gold eyes are brilliant in the afternoon light. “Don’t apologize.” He puts a finger to Aziraphale’s lips. “I don’t need that from you.” He replaces the finger with his own lips, soft and tender and sweet. 

“What do you need from me?” Aziraphale asks between kisses.

“Mm. I think I’m getting it right now.”

“Are you now?” He nips ever so lightly at Crowley’s bottom lip.

“Mm-hmm.” Crowley’s tongue flicks into his mouth, and he could swear it’s not entirely human-shaped this time. “What was that you said about practicing?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://fuckyeahisawthat.tumblr.com)


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